


Lovely Hallucinations

by VacantCanadian



Category: Hetalia Axis Powers
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M, Revolutionary War, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VacantCanadian/pseuds/VacantCanadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hetalia Fic. The Revolutionary War had come to a close, and England finds himself in a heartbroken stupor, until America suddenly comes waltzing back into his life as if the rebellion never happened. Desperate for comfort in a world of hurt, the Brit accepts in without question, until the American's behavior becomes to odd to ignore. But the secret America is trying to hide may just shatter Britain's heart into more pieces than it was already in. USUK.</p>
<p>-wow dead fic is super dead sorry-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He's gone...

England burst into the house, desperate not to get himself out of the freezing rain, but to get as far away as possible from that scene. His damp blond hair was plastered to his forehead and sent streaks of rainwater down the slopes of his nose, cheeks, and temples. He stumbled into an armchair in his living room, the one closest to the fireplace, not noticing that there was no actual fire in it. Within moments, the armchair was also drenched, seeing as the Englishman hadn’t had the presence of mind to take off the red coat of his war uniform.

If America were here, he wouldn’t let his caretaker have done such a foolish thing, and risk catching a cold. He would have heard the ruckus the older nation had made coming in. He would have rushed into the living room to see the distraught England. He would have made him take off his soaked garments and start the fire in the hearth. He would have sat with the Brit and whispered comforting words to him until all his hysteria disappeared, and lulled him to sleep in his arms.

“America!” England cried out into the hall, searching for someone he knew wasn’t there out of desperation. “America, come help me right now!” The only answer he received was the booming of thunder from the storm overhead. Tears welled up in the Brit’s tired eyes, not for the first time that night. Before, he had been too exhausted, too emotionally confused to cry. But now, in the comfort of his home, he was able to barely grasp what had happened, and sobs racked his body. _He’s gone. He won. He left me. He doesn’t want me anymore._

_“I won’t allow it!” the Englishman bellowed, charging at the taller blond with his bayonet pointed straight at him. The American quickly brought up his own weapon to block the attacker, holding his gun at a horizontal angle and pushing it against England’s bayonet for dear life. But the element of surprise aided the older nation, and he sent America’s bayonet spinning out of his hands, and it skidded across the muddy ground until if finally landed far to the right of the battlefield._

_Breathing heavily, Britain pointed his weapon straight at his rebellious colony. The taller blonde’s face was devoid of emotion, and it hurt his caretaker to see it that way._ Are you not affected at all? Not angry, not sad, nothing? Doesn’t this hurt you? The way it does me?

_“Shoot me,” America spoke calmly. His blue eyes stared into England’s with deep intensity, as if could see through the nation’s body straight to his soul, and see all the turmoil that ran amuck._

_His eyes. They blended in with the storm clouds in the background perfectly. But that wasn’t important. What was important was how dead they were. They no longer procured the sparkle from his childhood. They didn’t gleam playfully they way they had all those years. These weren’t the eyes of a helpless child. They were the eyes of a country. In that moment, England realized even if he shot the American, it would stop nothing. Internally, he was already independent. There was nothing the Brit could do to bring him back._

_Realizing his defeat, the old caretaker of America sank to his knees on the battlefield, the bayonet falling out of his hands and tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s gone, the older nation though in anguish, and he put his head in his hands to mask the sobs. It was a futile attempt. “Dammit,” he cried, “I can’t do it. You win, goddammit!” He looked up through his tears to see the imperturbable American watching him sobbing. If he felt anything, it didn’t show._

_For a few minutes, America just stood there, absorbing his hysterical ex-caretaker on his knees, at the newfound nation’s complete mercy, sobbing as if someone had smashed his heart and burned the remains. After he had taken it all in, he snapped out of his supposed stupor, and turned his back to the sniveling nation before him, motioning for his soldiers to follow him as he walked away._

_England wanted desperately to follow him, but his legs wouldn’t comply. The best he could do was to silently stretch a hand out toward the nation whose back was turned and wouldn’t see it. He tried to call out, but the only noises he could manage to form were undignified sobs. All Britain could do was cry as he watched everything he cared for walk away from him._

The lonely blonde buried his face in the fabric of the chair, threw his arms around the back as if the piece of furniture were his comforter, and let the sobs overtake him. Heartbreak had never before felt so literal; he could feel the horrible ache in the center of his chest. It was burning through him, and he hated it. He sobbed and sobbed until his body could not physically produce any more tears, and, out of fatigue, he fell into a deep sleep.

But the terrible memories still plagued him, even in his dreams. Flashbacks of America’s childhood, when he was just a wide-eyed boy, the gory battle for the freedom of the taller blonde, deadened, glazed-over, topaz-eyes eyes of a new country… Needless to say, England’s sleep was fitful and uncomfortable. _Are you okay, England?…I wish you could come and see me more often…England, I want independence…_

England sprang out of his sleep in a cold sweat…or was it just the leftover rainwater? He hadn’t any idea… He rubbed his slick forehead with his palm, and was about to collapse back over the chair when he heard a familiar voice call out his name. _“…England?”_

No, that wasn’t a familiar voice…it was an impossible voice. A voice that couldn’t exist here. Yet he was so sure…

Just then, a figure clothed in blue shuffled out of the nearest hallway into full view. Britain’s green eyes widened in disbelief.

“…America?”


	2. Chatper 2 (Honestly I'm Not Naming Them)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ???

England practically shot out of the armchair, disregarding his disheveled state. He blinked and took in the scene before him. In front of him was America, looking as if he’d just gotten a good night’s sleep and a bath. He gazed at the Englishman with concerned blue eyes, taking in his soaked uniform and his red, puffy eyes. “America…!” England tried to run to him, but his legs failed him, and he sank to the ground in front of the chair. The Brit blinked at him with tired eyes.

 

         _“Oh, England, what happened?”_ America quickly walked over to him and supported his wilting caretaker with an arm on his back and another holding his wrist. He felt unusually cool to the touch, like a wisp of wind was touching Britain instead. All the older nation could do was stare. He didn’t understand…what was happening? Why was America here? Had the battle been nothing but a dream? No, he was still wearing his battle uniform…

 

         “America…what…what are you doing here?” The Englishman stuttered, extremely confused.

 _“What do you mean, Iggy? I live here!”_ The taller blonde gave a breathy laugh.

“B-but you just…and I…” England looked up from his hands to the younger nation’s face. He had a small smile on his face, but his topaz-blue eyes shimmered with concern. He no longer wore his war uniform, but a pastel blue button down shirt and trousers. The shirt was half-tucked, a signature sloppy move for the country. For a split second, the unlit living room was replaced by the storm outside, and the fretful look in those blue eyes was replaced by a hard and emotionless one.

 

Tears filled the Brit’s eyes at the memory, which still felt as real as the sun and the moon, and he began to cry again. He began to blubber to the American, explaining why this didn’t make any sense, but he couldn’t force the words out. The taller blonde just frowned, and reached over to hug the miserable Englishman, wrapping both his arms around him and rubbing his back in a rhythmic, soothing pattern.

 

 _“Shhh….”_ The American murmured into his caretaker’s ear. _“It’s okay…It’s gonna be okay. I’m here.”_ England let himself sob into America’s shoulder like a child, despite being the eldest of the two. _“You can tell me about the battle later. It’ll be okay.”_ The younger nation whispered.

 

Even through his tears, Britain noticed tiny things that differed about blue-eyed country. He was usually so…present. He dominated any room he entered; his large figure and slightly larger ego took up so much space. But now, in this moment, he was feather-light, as if a light breeze were comforting him. England inhaled, searching for America’s thick, musty scent, but he found nothing. This was odd, but the Brit was so wrapped up in his own emotions that he bluntly ignored it and just let the American cradle him and lull him into sleep. Maybe, if he’d been a bit more concerned, it would have saved him for further heartbreak.

 

When Britain woke up, he found was still wrapped in the younger nation’s embrace. The only difference was that they were now both lying on the carpeted floor. He looked up to see what he expected to be the face of a sleeping America, but was startled to find wide blue eyes blue eyes gazing back at him. When the taller blonde realized that the Englishman was awake, his face lit up with a brilliant smile.

 

 _“Morning, sleepyhead!”_ The blue-eyed country exclaimed teasingly, still smiling.

 

“Oh…morning, America.” The groggy nation rubbed his green eyes, not in complete remembrance of what had happened the previous night. “Would you like to cook breakfast today?” Usually, this was something the American great pleasure in doing; he loved to cook, and while his concoctions could be a bit out of the ordinary, they were actually surprisingly tasty. Well, except for the iced tea. The other nations who’d tried it seemed to like it, but England still thought it was a mistake and tea was only drinkable when hot.

 

 _“Umm…Nah. Don’t you wanna do it instead?”_ America said, and shot him a toothy grin, but he had a nervous look in his eyes. The Brit hesitated a moment, confused by his ex-colony’s odd behavior, before slowly nodding his head.

 

The Englishman pushed himself up from the floor and ambled into the kitchen, the American trailing behind him. England began to rifle through the cupboards for ingredients. The taller blonde took a seat at the counter, positioning his legs as he usually did: with the right one crossed over the left casually. The Brit waited for the blue-eyed country to strike up a conversation with him, but America just stared at him with a smile still plastered on his face, swirling his hovering right ankle in a circular motion. After a long pause, Britain decided to be the first to speak.

 

“America… Why did you come back?” He questioned, not really feeling emotional after all of his outbursting last night, but still confused and curious.

 _“What do you mean?”_ The taller country asked casually.

“I mean, last night, you finally declared your freedom from me,” the Englishman explained, “And from the look on your face when you left, it didn’t really look like you were all that eager to see me anymore.”

      

 _“Oh…Did I?”_ The younger nation looked a little nervous. _“Well, um, I guess I was upset. I know I’m, like, my own nation now, but-“_ He swallowed, _“I didn’t really wanna leave you forever, you know? I still wanna see you, and I still like you!”_ He beamed at his caretaker once again. England was beginning to be wary of those smiles.

 

“So…you want to make peace?” The former pirate asked. This was going beyond odd. The Brit had been expecting a few solemn months of lonely mourning with America completely ignoring him before the countries even became close to making up and possibly forming an alliance.

 

 _“Um, yeah, sure!”_ The American aimed yet another wide grin at his caretaker. At this point, it seemed like he was obligated to smile after every sentence.

After a few seconds of hesitance, the Englishman smiled back at him, though softly. After a few seconds of awkwardly looking into each other’s eyes whilst a silence swallowed up the room, the eldest nation tore his eyes away from his fellow nation and began to concentrate on making dough for the scones he was preparing. Scones were his favorite things to bake, out of everything, and he thought the ones he prepared were decent, although France would beg to differ. _Bloody Frog,_ he thought to himself as he whisked the various ingredients together in a small mixing bowl, _Who the hell does that wanker think he is?_

 

England’s thoughts were interrupted when a voice piped up, _“So, what do you wanna do after this?”_ He looked up to see the taller, blue-eyed blonde gazing expectantly at him with a smile on his face.

 

 _He’s still_ _smiling…_

“Er…” the Brit thought for a brief moment before shrugging. “I dunno,” he said, now taking the dough he’d rolled out and dividing it into small pieces and placing them on the baking sheet on the counter. “Do you have anything in mind? Really, do you have any time? You’re a country now; surely you have plenty of new responsibilities. Even if you want to…do you really have time to hang around me?” the older nation asked, sliding the baking sheet into the oven and setting the timer. Honestly, he should have things to do

 

 _“Uh…Yeah! Totally!”_ Exclaimed the newer country. _“I’ll always have time to hang out with you, Iggy!”_ He sat up a little straighter in his chair. _“Actually, I have an idea of where we can go right now!”_ He beamed again, but this time it seemed more genuine, and Britain couldn’t resist smiling back. Without warning, America jumped out of his chair, grabbed the former pirate’s wrist, and plunged out of the nearest door with England right behind, leaving the scones to burn (Not that they weren’t going to do that already).

 

After a bit of unceremonious towing around the estate, America came to a sudden halt. Britain looked around. They were in the middle of the mansion’s gardens, which looked extraordinarily beautiful in the midmorning sunlight. To the right of the two countries, there was a gazebo crafted of whitewashed wood, except for the flooring, which was cobblestone. A few meters in front of them was sparkling stream, which was bordered by beautiful flora and had a small footbridge leading across it. This was, of course, only a small section of the gardens, which was in itself a labyrinth of plants in every color of the rainbow.            

  

 

         Giddy, the American spun himself into the gazebo and practically crashed into a black iron garden chair. England giggled in spit of himself, walking over to the opposite chair and seating himself in it.

 

         “Why did you bring me here?” The Brit asked, curious.

        

 _“Because it’s pretty here! This is where I used to go when I was little, and you were busy with something else! Sometimes you’d even come out here with me!”_ The gleeful nation replied. And Britain couldn’t deny it if he tried: The gardens glittered and playfully displayed their vibrant colors in the midmorning sun. They were almost as bright as the taller blonde’s breathtaking personality.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, the green-eyed country saw a servant girl tending to a row of azalea bushes **(A/N: Do azaleas grow in England? I hope they do. We have tons of them in Savannah.)** , and he called her over. She scurried to the two boys hurriedly.

 

“Yes, Master Kirkland?” She asked, addressing him by his formal title.

“Could you please do me a favor and fetch us some tea, love?” The smaller blonde asked as politely as he could. At the word ‘us’, a blank look formed on the maid’s face. She opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again. After a few moments of looking at England as if he was a riddle she couldn’t quite figure out, her eyes suddenly widened, as if remembering something. She mouthed the word _oh_ to herself, replied quickly to her master, “Yes sir, right away, sir,” and hurried away as quick as she had came.

 

“What was that all about?” England questioned with a laugh after the servant girl had disappeared from view. He turned back to America, and was a bit surprised to see a very nervous look adorning his face. His right ankle seemed to twirl a bit faster.

 

 _“Oh!”_ the blue-eyed nation exclaimed, just seeming to notice that the Brit had asked him a question. _“Um, I don’t know! There are crazy people everywhere, I guess! Heh heh…”_ he said nervously.

“I suppose so…” Britain found the American’s answer a little, well…suspicious. He didn’t really know why, but that’s the only way he could think to describe the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. _It’s probably just déjà vu,_ the older nation thought to himself. _No reason to let it ruin my day._ And so he pushed the thought into the back of his brain, and let himself fall back under America’s happiness spell.

 

The rest of the day was blissful. England couldn’t remember a time better than this one: He had no duties, and he simply let his American companion entertain him with his childish ways, making him lapse into fits of laughter at his silly antics. More than once, the smaller blonde found himself wrapped in the younger nation’s arms or getting lost in his gorgeous sky blue eyes. The Brit briefly wondered if America’s eyes always reflected the current weather.

 

But the climax of the day came at dusk. Britain had been reading from his beloved Shakespeare books to the taller blonde for about an hour, and now he actively had to monitor himself in order to make sure that he didn’t doze off. After watching ten minutes of this, America softly closed the book and led a tired England down the hall to his bedroom, who complained that he wasn’t really sleepy between yawns. The former pirate fell onto his bed, spent, and the younger nation then pulled the covers up over him. For a moment, America simply kneeled next to the smaller blonde’s bed, smoothing his hair out of his forehead, smiling. Slowly, he leaned down and kissed the Brit on the forehead, softly.

 

This should have sent England into a blushing frenzy and given him a stomach full of butterflies and happy dreams. However, it didn’t.

 

And that worried him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: FINALLY! This chapter, oh my goodness! It was twice as long as the first and it didn’t help the plot along AT ALL! Wow, you guys, I’m so sorry for that disappointment. Roughly three hours of forcing myself to work on this and it does NOTHING. Oh well. At least I did it. Next chapter is either going to give more rough hints as to why out of character America is out of character, or it’s not going to be helpful at all. Probably the latter. Sigh… But anyways, comments and kudos are appreciated! Criticism is welcomed, and remember, if you comment I will send Matthew to your house and you will get invisible Canadian hugs, and who doesn’t love invisible Canadian hugs? 
> 
> Signing off,
> 
> @FabulousFerret


	3. this isnt a chapter im jus t

OKAY SO IM REREADING MY OLD WORKS TO SEE HOW/IF IVE IMPROVED AND I--

dID I ACTUALLY HAVE ENGLAN USE AN OVE N

 

IN THE 1700S

 

IM IN TEARS WHAT WAS I A YEAR AGO

okay sorry bye

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And that’s a wrap…for this chapter, anyhow. God, I thought I’d never finished. Who knew Nickelodeon could be that distracting? I got to one thousand words, though, so I’d call that a success. I know this cliffhanger doesn’t really make sense at the moment, but just wait. I just had to get through some exposition here. Then I’ll probably do a couple chapters of complete fluffery before I get to the turning point of the plot, which reminds me… I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLOT PLANNED OUT! Like, this isn’t just random writing that I’m just throwing out there and hoping to turn into a story through magic and ex-machina! WOO! Anyways, see you non-existent readers later! (Or never… life could get in the way. Man, I hate life.)
> 
> Signing Off,
> 
> @FabulousFerret


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